"Joe DiMaggio, The Hero's Life," by Richard Ben Cramer. Simon & Schuster. 560 pages. $28.
In 6,821 at bats in 13 years as a New York Yankee, Joe DiMaggio hit 361 home runs and struck out only 369 times, an awesome achievement recited repeatedly by knowledgeable baseball fans as the ultimate proof of his greatness.
In his 84 years at the game of real life, DiMaggio hit few home runs and struck out countless times, a tragedy covered up for years by the DiMaggio Myth Machine.
That's the core of Richard Ben Cramer's gripping character study, "Joe DiMaggio, The Hero's Life."
For most of the 20th century, Joe D. was revered and celebrated as the epitome of grace and elegance, a champion with class. Cramer's Clipper (Joe got tagged with the nickname in 1939 following the introduction of the famed Pan American airliner, The Yankee Clipper) is anything but that.
If anyone has the credentials to dispel the DiMaggio myth, Cramer does. His impeccable record as an outstanding reporter includes winning a Pulitzer Prize with the Philadelphia Inquirer. His "What it Takes" (1992) still stands as a benchmark of political reporting.
In a writing voice that combines the bluster of the Bronx with the raunchiness of the locker room, Cramer shatters several myths. One of the most intriguing is that Joe's silence throughout his life was a sign of his humility. In fact, he was petrified of making a mistake or embarrassing himself and rarely talked to anyone.
He rode in a car 3,000 miles in 1936 with teammates Tony Lazzeri and Frank Crosetti from San Francisco to spring training in Florida and uttered nary a word, save for "I don't drive" when told it was his turn at the wheel. Fifteen years later, playing off and on most of the season with rookie Mickey Mantle, Joe spoke his first words to Mantle in an October World Series game, when Mantle injured his knee avoiding a collision with DiMaggio in center field: "Don't move. They're bringing a stretcher." As Cramer constantly documents, Joe had teammates, but no mates on the team. Not that they cared. After all, Joe won them nine World Series checks.
His silence was not confined to teammates. Joe rarely offered more than a sentence to anyone, family or friends -- and the people he stayed in touch with changed as frequently as his mood.
Another myth was that Joe was a debonair lady killer. In fact, Joe's life was frequently a steady stream of meaningless one-night stands, as silent and uncommunicative as many of his other relationships.
